People watching: it doesn’t cost a thing, is calorie-free and highly entertaining. After Tom Selleck and kilts (oooh, a kilted Tom Selleck!), is there really anything better?
I think not.
Driving to that bastion of dastardly capitalism and questionable clothing options that is Wal-Mart, a fellow driver and I had a run-in with, what I can only call an ‘other’, The Village Idiot.
He sat astride a rumbling mass of metal, a crotch rocket, (which us car driving dorks are endlessly chastised to watch out for because motorcycle!) behind the lady in the lane to my left, blaring music and oozing what I can only assume he thought was an air of menace. His taste in music sucked donkey balls, so being the peace lover I am, I rolled down the windows of the old mom-mobile and assaulted his eardrums with Great White.
As the light turned green, he zoomed betwixt myself and my lane mate and made a dash for the next light …which the traffic gods saw fit to turn a lovely shade of red.
Score and burn!!
Gleeful at this turn of events, my thoughts turned pious and I prayed the traffic gods kept the light red just to jack with the jerk. They didn’t disappoint.
As my lane mate and I pulled up behind him, we exchanged glances that said ‘One day, this dude will imitate cream cheese on a bagel and schmear himself on the pavement’. And onward we rolled, like bosses.
The Village Idiot is one of life’s little inevitabilities, like being rendered temporarily incontinent while laughing or sneezing (something us moms can appreciate) and that one chin hair that thwarts all attempts at being plucked making one look like a Kung Fu master with a double D rack and mom jeans.
The second highlight of my day was at Wal-Mart. I do love me some Wallyworld, y’all but it seems I always miss out on what every other Facebook post and YouTube clip shows: The Wal-Martian.
Today my wish was granted. As if the graciousness of the traffic gods weren’t enough. Sigh.
Wal-Martian watchers will tell you this breed can be spotted in any aisle in the store, but today I followed it outside.
It took me a bit to realize what set these ladies apart from the pack as I can be somewhat slow on the uptake and then, boom, there it was….two ladies still attired in pajamas and house slippers, rumps shaking like gunnysacks filled with a writhing turmoil of fighting cats. Mesmerized, I watched as She of the Well-worn Heather gray Britches, looking like Chewbacca’s long-lost cousin, shuffled about on pants legs that looked like they’d been set upon by rabid chihuahuas.
Sweet baby Jesus, they do exist!
Now, I myself, being a big-legged gal, can appreciate the comfort afforded by roomy britches but I leave the trailer park at home and put on some real pants when I leave the hacienda.
Girls, your pajama pants want to stay at home!
Now I’m off to pluck that chin hair.